Piastrelle: Without the ideologic or utopic part, design is nothing more than the infinite variation of utensils

pathways to the pulp

The abandoned chemistry lab in Andrew Moore's 2009 photograph of the former Cass Technical High School building, part of "Detroit Disassembled" now on view at the Akron Art Museum from the collection of Fred and Laura Bidwell.

Letters are more difficult now, now that correspondence remains 

An unessential, and undecided, issue. Such vehicles promptly 

Sold out, their imperatives undone, and like children or dream-

Logged clerks with a mind how it should be made up, on the whole. 

We could stand to learn a thing or two. Essentially in return, lift a stone, 

You will find them smooth and round, before smiling and shrugging

She hops on her motorcycle and speeds off. Her half-shrug,

One hand perhaps lifted in grief, obligates me to pay what remains 

Of the bill. That each of you may be kept safe from hungry ants, hurled stones

The Victorian insect sampler's fragile material could be promptly

Destroyed at every step. Not wanting to complicate the whole

I further kept the versions where you motioned to claw at your nose, dreamily,

Unpredictably as switching on a light, though you never claim to dream

Holding the gaping cloth, your head in the pillow. Absorb these ephemeral modes or shrug

Maybe discover a necropolis. That is, the subject of the present moment, a whole

Cache of obsolete weapons. Their women returned late in the evening. Those that remained,

To drink, and explain their coexistence as best we can. A tantric value and meaning promptly

Deployed as the least of our rights. Perhaps citing the affect of the altitude for the stone 

Fruit's stunted stem. For such instances where the corona disappeared, I made myself stone

Before the fresh packs of cards. As one hunched at her first figures in this playground, dreaming 

The tutorial volcano. Some accounts say that survivors bartered their clothes, which prompted

An age-old osmosis. Others avoided the invitation to disperse rain gathering in them. Shrugging

Off the untidy bedrooms, they rent their garments acknowledging the moment they hadn't remained

Married. With buttons undone, in unmade bunks, the tired bodies straightened should the whole

Compound emit an irritated, if not dangerous comment after "lights out." Kissing wholly

If hastily on the staircases, astonished there were colors and grades of it in the charges, with stone

Settling their decisions. Like campers warped and twisted by the system, childless they remain

At the thought they are depriving themselves of a meal. Again, their flush civilian brows amended dreaming.

In reference to her misery: a mass of water swelled into the piano player's hand, in gesture of a shrug

Yet the soil received it. Where another year of a word's repeated use, for their manufacture into silk purses, and prompt

Distortion, a bright desperation for the trophy bucks. Perhaps even now, towards a prompt

Reply she could think of staircases. Insisting regularly in the middle of the night on a wholeness.

Placing the cairn of another's mouth, a servant of the laws and slabs of cake, who colorfully shrugs

Half a dozen sentences. They came over her own lips, missed her when she was gone. Yet stone

Imposes different values. Darker blots of the morning before, moved like movements dreamed

Or otherwise, of her own blood. The upright question of who pulled the trigger now remains.

I cannot read the flush in her face, but correspondence remains. To which you promptly

Unfold yourself once again, now with effort concentrated on a shrug like something stone 

In this embrace you never dreamed, despite thunderous cloud masses this evening I've teased, to make whole.

RSA Animate - The Interests and Image of Industry

Pathways to the Pulp

 1884, A. Viassione (Torino, Italy) Tarocco Piemontese

Letters are more difficult now, now that correspondence remains 

An unessential, and undecided, issue. Such vehicles promptly 

Sold out, their imperatives undone, and like children or dream-Logged clerks with a mind how it should be made up, on the whole, we could stand to learn a thing or two. Lift a stone, 

You will find them smooth and round, before smiling and shrugging

She hops on her motorcycle and speeds off. Her half-shrug,

One hand perhaps lifted in grief, obligates me to pay what remains 

Of the bill. That each of you may be kept safe from hungry ants, hurled stones

The Victorian insect sampler's fragile material could be promptly

Destroyed at every step. Not wanting to complicate the whole

I further kept the versions where you motioned to claw at your nose, dreamily

Unpredictably as switching on a light, though you never claim to dream.

...

Black Guitar - L'année dernière à Marienbad

Belle Ombre

She seemed to be so generous and open-hearted, fresh with the disappointments
Of life; and so much so now, setting out the long conducting wire from a dead satellite
Tacking the  badly leaking longboat; a hatchet tucked into her khaki shorts, which she lacked--
Nevertheless setting out for home, beneath a picture of his wife, now dead, 
...

Silence, exile and cunning

The Ichneumon According to Pliny the Elder

Interesting example of host-parasite relationships, with a natural history from Pliny the Elder...

La tourneuse de pages

Je garde l'espoir d'un nouveau lendemain (Full Moon in Aquarius)

Memoirs Of A Cigarette 2/6

Quite a provocative documentary...ties in nicely with my current reading. 

XIX: Passifloras

And there you sit, waiting. We both go to psychiatrists, forsaking the old farmhouse.
The hand remembers the pitch-black arrows when the room had been transformed,
Rusting nails mistaken for fields of woodgrain. He persists in speaking off premises
Of tangles meant to last a day, and yet they thrum the broken teeth of the comb too closely.
Knowing your tactful agreement, and who among the variant musicians it pleases
All I ask is consciousness. Embargoed by ease, rebellion perhaps, despite the darkening


In the floorboards, look to wine and worlds for inspiration, attitudes to our science darkening,
Where human bodies grow in the same way, as rope molding frames a converted farmhouse.
An intimation of the troubles ahead, and with the moth wings composed, once again it pleases
Our notions of them, all clearly perishing; heavy hammers penetrating ever deeper to its fluid form,
Your bright shadow once again grasping at the corner of another memory, and watching closely
For someone catching, if not, then unobtrusive, upright, and honest. Not comely, the premises


Observed, your sad morning face caught between the shafts. That, imagining missed premises
Pressed together like maypops. Hollow, with their dimpled seeds. What with a scale darkening
Without giving ground, your hand slips in the binding. Well aware of being abandoned, closely
Pitching at the spike. All inside your head is demolished; a bet in exchange for your life, that farmhouse
Where some treasured species of mattock or rake is carried off, a garage transformed
Into facsimiles of all the closets in the house. I longed to be back gardening, just as it pleases


To regrow your neck. Devourers--and not just our fruit--undergo a divisioning of circles so well-pleased
At preserving our saints. Without a doubt, each has that persistent botanic splice. Except our premises
Baked in pots; with the afternoon rainstorm arriving late. Exchanges of a few words and nods formed
A few grains worth retrieving from the heap. But it starts you off again, your machinery darkening
In the yard, perhaps the rest follows in its turn. Everyone but strays have left the farmhouse
To do a trade. We strain to hear the sex noises they would make. Coming and going, closely


Chiding ashes of last autumn's leaves. It comes like all the tonic bottles issuing from here, closely
Grasping for subtler taxonomic clues. With the fire damped; flux, the soap and water cleared, you are pleased,
Fleeing to the only soft bed in a flush of joy. The Sun shines for them, slipping on the scree. A farmhouse
From a fortunate marriage, although it does not promise a reciprocal gaze. There is no telling which premise
We are experiencing, prompting us to bare our trim bodies. Rescued from decomposition in dreams, the darkening
Loft in the early morning erases reprisals. About the marks, tell of them what you like. They are formed


To say something, aren't they? Now I see how mistaken I was, on whose shambling mount I lead, forming
A camp around the windings of a stream. Having suffered reverses, I bring the light close to my face, closely--
That I have not returned with apologies, how it tears at the skin, retreats. An unseen dog greeted me, darkening
Far into the portrait. Yet the bloodletting never stretches far enough, hammering the warped boards down, pleased,
How it was like for me--stumbling on my attacker's front foot, I knitted them into tender movements, and with premises
The thing waggled along. Somnolence, its ultimate product. You think I'm willful, reclaiming lumber from the
farmhouse.

Despite the darkening of decades, destruction of conditions making them valuable, the room is transformed.
Deer dart on the edge of the farmhouse. After a fire destroyed much of the classical lines,  it gathered closely so that historic forests would return. Shall I thrash out a plan for the other half, the musicians it pleases, shall that be the attitude of these premises?

Passifloras (vines)

And there you sit, waiting. We both go to psychiatrists, forsaking the old farmhouse.

The hand remembers the pitch-black arrows when the room had been transformed,

Rusting nails mistaken for fields of woodgrain. He persists in speaking off premises

Of tangles meant to last a day, and yet they thrum the broken teeth of the comb too closely.

Knowing your tactful agreement, and who among the variant musicians it pleases

All I ask is consciousness. Embargoed by ease, rebellion perhaps, despite the darkening

In the floorboards, look to wine and worlds for inspiration, attitudes to our science darkening,

Where human bodies grow in the same way, as rope molding frames a converted farmhouse. 

An intimation of the troubles ahead, and with the moth wings composed, once again it pleases

Our notions of them, all clearly perishing; heavy hammers penetrating ever deeper to its fluid form,

Your bright shadow once again grasping at the corner of another memory, and watching closely
For someone catching, if not, then unobtrusive, upright, and honest. Not comely, the premises 

Observed, your sad morning face caught between the shafts. That, imagining missed premises

Pressed together like maypops. Hollow, with their dimpled seeds. What with a scale darkening
Without giving ground, your hand slips in the binding. Well aware of being abandoned, closely 

Pitching at the spike. All inside your head is demolished; a bet in exchange for your life, that farmhouse
Where some treasured species of mattock or rake is carried off, a garage transformed   

Into facsimiles of all the closets in the house. I longed to be back gardening, just as it pleases

To regrow your neck. Devourers, and not just our fruits, undergo a divisioning of circles so well-pleased

At preserving our saints. Without a doubt, each has that persistent botanic splice. Except our premises

Baked in pots; an afternoon rainstorm arriving late. Exchanges of a few words and nods formed

A few grains worth retrieving from the heap. But it starts you off again, your machinery darkening 

In the yard, perhaps the rest follows in its turn. Everyone but strays have left the farmhouse
To do a trade. We strain to hear the sex noises they would make. Coming and going, closely

Chiding ashes of last autumn's leaves. It comes like all tonic bottles issuing from here, closely,

Grasping for subtler taxonomic clues...
 

You Can Say Anything with Sunglasses

The entrance of a lemming into the poem, before it is finished. And then, a language lesson, rather two.


Ecstasy, bala, balada
E me chama depois
Pra dar uma e dar dois
Ela é que causa
É que explana
E que acende os faróis

Mas o meu samba
Transcende
E apaga as pegadas
Que ela quer deixar
Falso Leblon
Big Brother
Tou fora do ar

Ai, amor
Chuva
Num canto de praia
No fim da manhã
E depois de amanhã?

O que faremos do Rio
Quando, enriquecendo
Passarmos a dar
As cartas
As coordenadas
De um mundo melhor

Quanta tristeza guardada
Na cara da moça bonita
Que dóI
Francisco Alves
Seu Jorge, os Hermanos
Já foi

Ai, amor
Chuva
Num canto de praia
No fim da manhã
E depois de amanhã?

Drogas, tou fora
Tá foda
Agora vambora
Nem vinho tomei
Me sinto muito sozinho
E ela é a lei

Odeio a vã cocaína
Mas amo a menina
E olho pro céu
Ela se engancha por cima
De mim: quem sou eu?

Passifloras (vines)

And there you sit, waiting. We both go to psychiatrists, forsaking the old farmhouse.

The hand remembers the pitch-black arrows when the room had been transformed,

Rusting nails mistaken for fields of woodgrain. He persists in speaking off premises

Of tangles meant to last a day, and yet they thrum the broken teeth of the comb too closely.

Knowing your tactful agreement, and who among the variant musicians it pleases

All I ask of consciousness. Embargoed by ease, rebellion perhaps, despite the darkening

In the floorboards, look to wine and worlds for inspiration, attitudes to our science darkening,
Where human bodies grow in the same way, as rope molding frames a converted farmhouse. 
In intimation of the troubles ahead, and with the moth wings composed, once again it pleases
Our notions of them, all clearly perishing; heavy hammers penetrating ever deeper to its fluid form,
Your bright shadow once again grasping at the corner of another memory, and watching closely
For someone catching, if not, then unobtrusive, upright, and honest. Not comely, the premises 

Observed, your sad morning face caught between the shafts...

Raising and Retiring Chinese Lanterns (Physalis alkekengi)

Blunt Services

And there you sit, waiting. We both go to psychiatrists, forsaking the old farmhouse.
The hand remembers the pitch-black arrows when the room had been transformed,
Rusting nails mistaken for fields of woodgrain. He persists in speaking to me off premises
Of tangles meant to last a day, yet they thrum the broken teeth of the comb too close

To know of your tactful agreement. Among variant musicians it pleases: a room transformed,
Embargoed by rebellion, 
...

In Praise of the Messy Desk

Not rather drunk

Wartime Chrysalis

Quite unprepared for anyone so exotic, with quoting fingers. 
The sky speaks again among its tame birds, as if every profession
Seals beneath itself monuments, and seeks a sloth's strip of garden.
For that requires tears in the true performance. Both's need to play
The lion finds only the mollusk separating us. Supposed their clothing
Is worn, the number of times they have been performed as people, no one had to plead--


Pastry simply imitated, and a passion was born. One might plead
Vision collides with a kite or sounding rocket, worse yet the fingering
Of Love's usual calm self--upsetting the meringue--by which a dart unclothes
The entered apprentice. Then my breasts didn't amount to much, a profession
Quite unremarkable. Sure enough, those pink sandstone miracles permit the play 
Of streets below their lattice, an obeisant trumpet vine up and over your garden

Gate. Perhaps a breath of reason scratches your face away, or gardens
Were no longer facts of individuals, though the wreathes they plead, 
The laurels or Lenten roses, one will sometimes excavate to play
Upon us mourners of feminine besmirchment. If something to finger
Polish at the dog fight. Overcoming a great deal of nerves professed
Before a disappointed silence; except for the click of a pedometer, the clothes


Adapt themselves before the contents of a paintbox, sixteen paces in new clothes
Before I recognize myself in three lovers. From a treason cell, I enrich my garden
With handbills of local legends. I approach them with the steps of a dancer professing
A self-conscious, if cross-legged, posture before the privy to the public. I plead 
To be delivered up to its genius. Or probe the softened ivory, or is it camembert, fingering 
Finally who's the bastard. Besides those nondescript fillers in curriculum, I've played


This form's coordinates far too long, yet the shape of my library is round, playing
Up the composite and contretemps until today's salmon pencil is ground up. The clothes
Most likely admired are shredded, seeking to show prospective friends the finger where
This sector's determined and created through accidents, where a heart orders its garden
Even this is largely inaccurate, because the theater will be dark. The beer saucer pleads
For casualties and an audience's patter of applause or is it staggered egress? Professing


My mind hear my tong, perhaps the healing comes with the over-painting, a profession
Confined to various research trips through Facebook profiles or wholesale bids on Mock Turtle.To play,
Is to saw the legs off your precarious throne. How this little musket of mine shoots the pleading
Face card; accompanied by many spirited words, my love. Once begun, these many clothes
Release me any time from my hopeless workday. Before your shuttle working up a garden
Tapestry of mylar threads. Disbelief trails somewhere close behind. I took myself, all fingers


Intact, off into the open air professing card tricks or friendships with girls. With manicured fingers,
Guiding the vibratory knives of mowers and novice keyboards, the pleading lover hangs up her clothes
For she is burned by the sun; and suddenly unstoppable, looking backward to solitary play in the garden.

Now, For the Usual Frank Verbs

Leveraging the Leminiscate: Sapphic XI or XIII

                     To be continued, the cudgels down...